


Displacement

by natsubaki



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Anal Sex, Chance Meetings, Complicated Relationships, Forbidden Love, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Semi-Public Sex, Tokyo Ghoul: re, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:38:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6255019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natsubaki/pseuds/natsubaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them were supposed to be there. But neither of them can keep away from the other for long, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Displacement

**Author's Note:**

> Slight canon divergence with this one. It's set in the current timeline, sometime after the Tsukiyama Extermination arc but before the Rushima/Cochlea operation. Give it a few weeks, and this will probably get retconned to hell, lol. Happy (an hour-plus late) White Day~

This isn’t exactly the right time or place for such an encounter, but that’s part of the thrill of it.

“Tsukiyama... _hurry_ ,” Kaneki pants, his slacks loose around his knees, feet spread wide and unsteady upon large chunks of gravel.

Lips spread into a wide grin, tight at the edges and holding back a chuckle. “No honorific? _Très bien_ , Kaneki-kun. Or should it be just ‘Kaneki’?” Tsukiyama squeezes the cock in his hand, slowly dragging his fist down the length of it, causing Kaneki to shudder even as he turns his head back and fixes Tsukiyama with a warning glare.

Kaneki’s eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth downturned into a scowl. The picture it creates is so unlike the Kaneki of Tsukiyama’s memories, although Tsukiyama well knows that that Kaneki is long gone. That single kakugan stares back at him, a bright thin red ring floating in black, shielded by glass and nestled atop dark bags filled undoubtedly by sleepless nights. A light flush graces the tops of his cheeks—delicate pink against the stark black of his hair—the only signal that this body lives and is not a corpse. Despite the unconventional meeting place, despite the wretched uniform, despite the lifelessness that Kaneki carries and all that lies unspoken between them, Kaneki is still the most beautiful thing Tsukiyama has ever seen.

“It’s ‘Sasaki- _san_ ’ now,” Kaneki says as he turns back to face the wall; Tsukiyama can practically hear the rolling of eyes in his tone. “Remember, we’re not supposed to really know each other.” Kaneki’s hands flex against the rough concrete of the dilapidated building as he presses backward against Tsukiyama pointedly.

Tsukiyama leans in and nuzzles into Kaneki’s neck, trailing a hand up his chest underneath his button-down shirt. At least his body is warm. “You’re right,” Tsukiyama murmurs and inhales. Kaneki smells sweet with arousal, the tang of sweat collecting underneath oppressive garments. “I should be dead.”

They have not talked about what happened that night. They likely never will. Tsukiyama has tried, in scattered instances like these, to the same result. In his hold, Kaneki stills. Even the beating of his heart is a faint thing. Tsukiyama presses a kiss to his jugular. “What, planning on skewering me again?”

“Tch. I might if you don’t _hurry it up already_ ,” Kaneki bristles, and it almost makes Tsukiyama laugh, because there it is. The old Kaneki—the one he’d known, with white hair crowning a commanding presence and a short temper, which in turn had housed a brittle fragility. The one he had hungered for, although that desire has smoldered to embers, burning his chest instead of his gut.

He knows better, now. It had taken some time, a lifetime’s worth of pain, and an incredible amount of loss to realize. But what Tsukiyama holds within his heart is undeniable. Resilient. Immortal. There will always be a part of him that loves Kaneki Ken, no matter the incarnation or transgressions that fill the rift that opens and closes between them like a greedy, gaping maw. Tsukiyama has accepted this.

And something always brings Kaneki back to him, a repeating miracle in a cycle of hurt and healing, distrust and betrayal and undying hope. Perhaps that is what binds them together: the belief that the other could be better, that the other is worth something amongst the madness and cruelty of the world they had both been born into, that the bond itself is meaning enough to their existences.

Why else would they keep running into each other like this? As if to remind him of his presence, Kaneki grinds back against Tsukiyama again, a silent encouragement—no, _insistence_ —for continuation. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he mutters underneath his breath, even as his body responds to Tsukiyama’s touch, “This has to be the least romantic rendezvous.”

“Romance, hm? Is that what you want?” Tsukiyama teases as he licks the shell of Kaneki’s ear.

A shaky exhalation. “It’s just unlike you.”

“It can’t be helped,” Tsukiyama replies, because it’s true. He’s had to learn to be more adaptable in these past few months than ever before in his life. Before, he’d had the luxury of time and control. Plans could be tweaked and adjusted. He’d had resources, and life had been simpler. Now, he lives each day on its own, a struggle to find and hold onto a scrap of regularity. “ _You_ found me this time, after all.”

Beneath his fingers, Tsukiyama can feel that Kaneki has stopped breathing. A pause, when they do not have time. “I was on a mission,” he finally says. “I didn’t know it was you.”

A smile turns Tsukiyama’s lips, but he does not feel it. “We all have to eat.” It’s another truth, a simple fact of life, although it shouldn’t sound as sad as it does.

Although Tsukiyama had been warned against it, he had hunted. He had thought he had been careful. He had chosen a largely-abandoned section of town, avoided for the unsafety of its demolished buildings yet populated by the type of people filling Tokyo’s underbelly. Victims no one would miss. Tsukiyama hadn’t expected to get caught while feeding. He had been fortunate that it had been Kaneki.

It’s not a regular occurrence, but his new, constricted lifestyle leaves him feeling like a caged animal after a period of time. He had needed to get out, to feel alive, even if it meant the death of another as his proof. Refrigerated meat does not have the same effect as fresh, warm blood spilling over one’s hands, the velvet texture of organs and greasy fat breaking underneath one’s fingers and bursting across tastebuds.

Besides, it had been a while since he had last used his kagune. It had needed stretching—the heavy ache of Rc cells accumulating between his shoulders had grown unbearable. And if he did not hunt, he would become soft. Tsukiyama’s pride, already so battered, would not afford that.

Kaneki is not soft at all anymore. His body has become all firm muscle. Lean. There is not much give to it. Even his smile is a hard line carved across his face. Although his hair has reset to the color from when they had first met…

Tsukiyama glides a hand down the curve of Kaneki’s ass and squeezes. Kaneki can detect his hesitance. “It’s fine, so just do it,” he says, angling his hips back.

“I don’t like this coat,” Tsukiyama dodges, tugging at the dark material.

Kaneki swats his hand away. “Shut up.”

“That’s not the only thing. These glasses,” Tsukiyama says as he strokes over the metal frame next to Kaneki’s ear, “when did you ever need those? And these gloves.” He reaches over to cover Kaneki’s right hand with his own. The red leather is supple. Probably expensive. They would be nice if not for the uniform they accompany. If not for the barrier they present. Tsukiyama drags his fingers down atop Kaneki’s, down the back of his hand, and pause at the edge of the glove. He grinds against Kaneki as he hooks one finger underneath the glove’s hem—the peek of skin underneath feels rough and scaly, an angry color just a shade less saturated than the gloves. As if it were diseased.

Just what has the CCG done to him?

“Don’t,” Kaneki says. His voice is thick yet hollow.

Tsukiyama’s hand retreats. Snakes up Kaneki’s arm, up the neck and jaw, finds a new residence within Kaneki’s mouth. Kaneki sucks on the fingers eagerly, working his tongue around the pads of fingertips. Tsukiyama works his own mouth against Kaneki’s nape, creating small bruises that quickly heal.

A shrill ringing disturbs their solitude.

“Can’t you shut that off?” Tsukiyama groans as he removes his fingers from Kaneki’s mouth. The damned phone has been going off periodically throughout their little tryst; it is getting annoying. He spreads Kaneki wide and inserts a wetted finger, pulling and stretching as much as it will allow.

“I can’t,” Kaneki says, gritting his teeth as Tsukiyama opens him up from behind, “it would draw more attention if it were turned off.” He looks back again. “It’s why we have to hurry if we’re going to do, ah— _this_ —it’s probably my partner calling.”

A sharp flare shoots up Tsukiyama’s chest. “ _Partner_ ,” he nearly chokes on the word, “I don’t like the sound of that.” He presses into Kaneki slowly, pulling Kaneki’s hips toward him, the muscles of his entrance still tight and unyielding. Kaneki gradually takes him in, a halting acceptance. Tsukiyama closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath until his lungs are full and protesting. If he’s not careful, the pressure alone could send him over the edge and put a premature ending to their time together.

“No one’s asking you to,” Kaneki hisses, leaning into the wall, digging his fingers into dusty concrete.

He has to move, or else he’s going to lose it. The heat surrounding him is incredible, and the combined scent of them is making Tsukiyama feel lightheaded. Carefully, he slides out, the rippling drag of his cock against inner walls sending a dangerous tingling to the insides of his thighs all the way down to his toes. He pushes back in with a grunt once he’s almost fully unsheathed, this time with jarring, shallow thrusts until Kaneki’s body begins to open up.

Hands gripping onto Kaneki’s hips, Tsukiyama sets into a slow rhythm, the fall into Kaneki’s body becoming easier with each repetition of in and out. “What would you ask of me, then, Mr. Associate Special Class?” Tsukiyama whispers into Kaneki’s ear, mouthing at the lobe and biting it with just enough force to feel the give of skin rolling against connective tissue. He leans back to gain more leverage, angling his thrusts in a way that will reach the deepest part of Kaneki. The belt of Kaneki’s coat, the garment open and bunched at his lower back, swings back and forth, caught in their motion.

“You’ve moved quite quickly through the ranks,” Tsukiyama continues, “but then, you always were a quick learner.” He’s not sure why he’s saying any of this. Perhaps just to fill the empty spaces. Perhaps because a part of him wants to know about the life Kaneki has led without him. But perhaps it is a file best left unopened. “My little dove is becoming a hawk.”

Kaneki makes a disgruntled, guttural sound, but he says nothing, allowing his body to continue rocking against Tsukiyama’s.

A light sheen of sweat has emerged along the back of Kaneki’s nape, right under his hairline. The curve of Kaneki’s downward-bent neck, golden sunlight filtering through the fine black hairs that sway with their movement and setting them ablaze, the slight curve of Kaneki’s eyelashes that Tsukiyama can just barely see when Kaneki tilts his head—Tsukiyama wants to imprint them all to memory, to hold onto until the next time fate throws them onto crossing paths. Kaneki’s hair is shorter than when he’d last seen him: it looks like it had been recently cut. There had been a time when Kaneki had cut the little lady’s hair—she had squealed in delight at her reflection. Tsukiyama remembers dark wisps of hair collected in a pile on the floor, a woman’s fashion magazine and a pair of shears on the coffee table. He wonders where she is, if she’s doing okay. But Tsukiyama knows that time can never be recovered, no matter how hard he wishes it could be so.

Tiny, muted gasps fall from Kaneki’s lips. His eyes are squeezed shut, hands clenching into fists as they keep him braced upright. It’s odd. He’s not touching himself at all, or Tsukiyama for that matter.

And then it hits Tsukiyama. The impatience, the insistence...maybe… Maybe Kaneki _wants_ it to hurt. Maybe this is some weird, guilt-like, self-inflicted punishment. But that’s not what Tsukiyama wants. The time they have together is so scarce, so unpredictable, that he wants to enjoy it as much as he can. For _both_ of them to enjoy it.

Tsukiyama reaches around, slipping a hand across the rise of bone and a bump of unnaturally smooth skin to encircle Kaneki’s cock. Kaneki hisses at the contact, shying away but only serving to drive Tsukiyama in deeper from behind. Tsukiyama brushes a kiss against Kaneki’s exposed nape, squeezes at the hot flesh within his hand. He wants to kiss lips, taste Kaneki’s mouth. Kaneki’s panting is ragged and becoming more vocal by the moment, and god, what they’re doing—fucking in broad daylight within a broken-down building while Kaneki is on a mission for the CCG—is reckless and beyond stupid, but Tsukiyama doesn’t care. He tongues along Kaneki’s ear, nibbles at the joint of his jaw. Rubs his thumb over the head of Kaneki’s wet cock.

A loud cry escapes from Kaneki, making him slap a palm over his mouth in distress, but Tsukiyama keeps moving, pumping and thrusting until Kaneki’s legs begin to tremble and his knees threaten to buckle. He hitches the bundle of fabric between their bodies up and slides his other hand up along Kaneki’s spine, feeling each ridge of vertebrae. Digs fingertips into the dip at the small of the back, crawls them back up to massage at the tender area where Kaneki’s kakuhou would be. The skin underneath his hold feels like it’s buzzing.

His own ears are buzzing. All his senses have fixated upon Kaneki and how he feels around him: the pulsating pressure, the rising heat, the shuddering breaths, the slickness of exertion. It’s dangerous to get so caught up in the act, to allow the sensory alarms that should be vigilant to fall silent. But this is all Tsukiyama wants, all he can hope for. A short period of (perhaps false) safety in the other’s arms, where only the two of them exist in the entire world.

Their time is almost up. Tsukiyama’s motions have become increasingly erratic, crashing his body at the juncture of Kaneki’s so strongly, as though they could merge into one being with enough collision. Distantly, he can hear his own voice in repetition: _Kaneki, Kaneki, Kaneki…_

Kaneki must be able to tell, too, because he starts to make frantic noises, one hand finally releasing off the wall to smack at Tsukiyama’s grip on his hips.

“Don’t-” he begins, but it’s much too late. Tsukiyama has already reached his limit. A bright flare takes his vision, and he buries himself within Kaneki and holds on as he releases. He can vaguely register the feeling of wetness within his palm. When the world returns to him, Tsukiyama shifts. Rocks into Kaneki one more time and noticing the ease of it. Kaneki’s shoulders rise and fall with each swallowed breath. Tsukiyama rests his forehead at the center of Kaneki’s back before he pulls out. Steps back. Runs his clean hand through his hair.

He rubs the viscous fluid in his other hand between thumb and forefinger. Swipes his tongue across his palm. Savors every drop. His eyes dart to the bloody remains at the far end of the room. At least some things never change: Kaneki is still the best-tasting thing he’s ever eaten.

Turning, Kaneki leans back against the wall, his chest still heaving. His lips are shiny and slightly parted. Tsukiyama can see a tiny glimpse of white teeth. Kaneki slowly pries his eyes open and gives Tsukiyama a half-hearted glare. “Next time…”

“ _Désolée_. It’s been a while,” Tsukiyama says rather sheepishly, although he can tell a corner of his mouth is involuntarily turning upward. He fishes around in his pocket and holds out a square handkerchief.

Kaneki accepts it with a little bit of effort. “I’ll manage,” he says as he cleans himself and readjusts his clothing. Tsukiyama does the same, watching Kaneki out of the corner of his eye. Soon, they are as they were just moments before. Kaneki balls the handkerchief up and shoves it into his coat pocket.

They gaze at each other, only footsteps apart. And then Kaneki takes a step forward, followed by another. Twists fists into the front of Tsukiyama’s shirt and tugs him down. His hands look like bloodstains against the white. The kiss is rough—an excess of pressure, the hint of teeth—there’s nothing gentle about it. But then he melts, and Tsukiyama guides him into his embrace. Opens his mouth with his tongue and slides it inside. Feels his heart jump. It’s like he’s traveled back in time.

And then it’s over.

Sunlight glints off Kaneki’s glasses. He looks distinctly out of place amongst all the dirt and rubble.

“Ah, _merde_ , I have to run, or else I’ll be late for my shift.” Tsukiyama breaks the silence as he checks his watch. He stoops to collect his jacket and shakes it out before shrugging it back on. “I’m not looking forward to the tongue-lashing, although sometimes it’s fun to wind the proprietress up,” he laughs.

Kaneki’s face is impassive. “...You’re at :re?”

“By a series of unlikely events,” Tsukiyama affirms. He stares at Kaneki for a long while. “Don’t come by.”

“I won’t.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll leave first,” Kaneki says. A foot slides and stalls atop gravel. He turns. The gravel crunches under his heels as he rejoins the outside world. Returns to a world separate from Tsukiyama. It’s like he’s water—Tsukiyama is unable to hold Kaneki within his hands—he slips away too easily.

Absently, Tsukiyama wonders how many times he’s been condemned to watch Kaneki walk away from him.

Conversations from outside scatter into the empty room. “There you are, Boss! I’ve been looking all over for you,” an unknown voice calls out. No, it’s not entirely unknown. There’s _something_ familiar about it, but Tsukiyama can’t pin what exactly it is…

“Furuta-kun,” Kaneki acknowledges. “Sorry, did you call?”

Ah. So that must be the “ _partner_.” Tsukiyama already doesn’t like him.

There’s a wilted exchange. It’s almost comical. The voices become distant. Tsukiyama struggles to hear, against his better judgment. “What’s this?” that voice calls out again. Kaneki’s partner is gratingly loud enough for Tsukiyama to still hear him. It’s almost obnoxious. It makes Tsukiyama like him even less. “Boss, you smell a little different today. A new cologne?”

The words fade out. Kaneki, even at his most terrifying, rarely spoke above normal levels.

Tsukiyama takes a moment to collect himself. His chest aches. He’s used up all his tears.

He leaves, taking the opposite exit. There are people expecting him, after all. It’s best not to keep them waiting.


End file.
